


Brittle

by Anonymous



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Asexual Character, BDSM, Canon Character of Color, Dominance, Explicit Consent, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Pansexual Character, Submission, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want,” McCoy says suddenly in between gasps, his head light, “I want you to break me.  Make me cry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brittle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Regarklipop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regarklipop/gifts), [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> For Regarklia and iambickilometer, who dragged me down this spiral in the first place. <3

If he had to pinpoint when all this _actually_ started, McCoy would probably have to say during Spock’s last routine physical.  Very little fazes McCoy anymore—he’s seen the most disgusting symptoms and abominable diseases on the crew, and anything else he’s already seen in the hi-def holograms in the Handbook.  McCoy’s used to Spock’s erratic vitals by now too, and the miscellaneous spots and marks that come and go, while somewhat alarming by human standards, indicate the Vulcan’s general health and well-being.

What does faze him, however, is the intricate knotwork hidden beneath Spock’s shirt—lines of stars and diamonds criss-crossing his chest, rope textured against Spock’s smooth skin.  He closes his mouth when he realizes that it’s hanging slightly open, then purses his lips in not-quite-disapproval, not-quite-approval—more just a sort of perplexion.

“I understand that, as a physician, you have the utmost regard for patient confidentiality,” Spock says, the corners of his lips just barely twitching upward in a smirk.  McCoy rubs his temples.

“Good God, man,” he says, which is, of course, his way of saying yes.

“Shibari, if you’re curious,” Spock says.  “Japanese in origin.”

“I wasn’t curious,” McCoy says, which is only a slight lie.  He wraps the cuff a little too tight around Spock’s arm and scans his retinas while taking his blood pressure.  He jabs a needle into Spock’s other arm; the attached vial fills quickly with green blood.  Okay, maybe he’s a little curious, and given that—as far as he knows, at least—there’s only one Japanese crew member on board…

And, would you look at that.  Deductions.  Mr. Spock would be proud.

“All normal,” McCoy says after a few minutes.  “Except for, well.  You know.”

“I assure you that shibari is completely normal and not indicative of any sort of psychological deviance,” Spock says.  “It is simply an… alternative, shall we say.”

“Alternative to _what_?” McCoy says, then shakes his head.  “Nevermind.  I don’t want to know.  You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Spock says, pulling on his shirt.  McCoy can still see the outlines of some of the knots underneath the fabric—how did he not notice them before?  “Should you have any lingering inquiries, I imagine you can infer whom to ask.”

“Yeah, yeah,” McCoy says, doing his best to politely shove Spock out of the medical bay.  “Call the next person in.  I’m done.”

“Certainly,” Spock says, then disappears as the door closes behind him.

*

Spock surprises him with another visit a week later.  Spock tends to be one of the healthier crew members, with little to worry about except for that pon farr bullshit, but that only happens once every seven years, so McCoy’s not particularly concerned about it.  Other than that, Spock only ever comes in for routine medical checks and for the rare decontamination after brushes with foreign flora or uncommon diseases.  Their last disembarkment had been the emergency landing in Io the day before, and by now Io is familiar territory for the crew—nothing too unusual or strange that would require a medical checkup.

“Mr. Spock,” McCoy says, eyebrows raised.  “You were fine a week ago.  What happened?”

“I am… concerned about my well-being,” Spock says, and McCoy rolls his eyes.

“Obviously.  Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.  Didn’t catch a cold on Io, did you?”

“No, I did not,” Spock says, then sighs.  Sighs?  McCoy’s not sure he heard that right—Spock doesn’t sigh, and sighing is an unusually… _human_ thing for him to be doing.  There’s also a _look_ in Spock’s eyes, something more emotional and vulnerable than McCoy’s used to seeing.  Now that he’s looking closely at Spock, he also notices a downturn to his lips that deviates from the usual straight-set, expressionless line on his face.

“What’s wrong?” McCoy says, grabbing a set of instruments.  He scans Spock—no indication of any common colds or illnesses—takes his blood pressure, goes through all the routine movements.  There don’t seem to be any physical anomalies, other than Spock’s heart beating just slightly faster than usual.

“I haven’t been feeling like myself lately,” Spock says after a moment.  “I have been feeling… highly emotional.  Moreso than usual.”

“More emotional?  _You?_ ”  McCoy would scoff, but he’s sensitive enough to the general atmosphere Spock’s giving off to know not to make a joke out of the situation.  “That’s _definitely_ unusual.  When did this start happening?”

“Shortly after the emergency landing,” Spock says.  McCoy nods.

“Did anything unusual happen yesterday?” he says, and Spock hesitates.

“You can assure me that I have doctor-patient confidentiality, is this correct?” Spock says, and McCoy nods.

“I can promise you that I will not speak a word of what you say confidentially to me to anyone else,” McCoy says, “unless in the case as mandated by law or when, at my discretion, I feel that you are in a situation with significant harm or abuse involved.”

Spock nods.  “Satisfactory.”  He pauses, then continues.  “Yesterday, shortly before the emergency landing on Io, Mr. Sulu and I were engaged in activities involving—bondage and discipline, shall we say.”

“And this was all consensual?” McCoy says, not missing a beat—in physician mode, he’s only concerned with Spock’s well-being; in civilian bystander mode, this news would’ve probably make him choke on his drink and sputter.

“Absolutely,” Spock says.  “Mr. Sulu is very careful about consent indeed, so I do not believe my feeling of unease is due to any kind of trauma resulting from that.  Rather, the only unusual event that occurred was the emergency landing itself—it interrupted our activities, hence why the two of us were late by approximately thirty-two point four three seconds late to the Captain’s call.”

McCoy nodded.  He had noted that as well—Sulu being late was one thing, but Spock was rarely, if ever, tardy to anything.  After a second, his mind flashes to last week’s shibari.Something clicks, and his eyes widen with the realization.

“Mr. Spock, what role were you assuming?” McCoy says slowly.

“Subordinate, Doctor,” Spock says, looking up as if to challenge him to question what he’s just said. 

“And does Sulu take care to perform appropriate aftercare?” McCoy says, more pieces clicking together in his mind.  He doesn’t express any surprise, even though he wouldn’t have pinned Spock as a sub—maybe a switch?—but he doesn’t linger on the thought, and instead sits beside the bed.

“Always.  Although, as the emergency landing interrupted us yesterday, he was unable to.  Other than that, he is careful to always perform the proper aftercare rituals.”

McCoy nods, then speaks in a calming voice.  “And you’re feeling emotional—depressed?  Anxious?  Unsure of whether you’re doing the right thing?  Unsure of whether Sulu continues to feel for you in the same way?”

Spock quirks an eyebrow.  “Indeed, Doctor.  Those are precisely my symptoms.”

McCoy leans back against the chair.  “You’re probably experiencing sub drop,” he says.  “Which isn’t unusual, given the circumstances.  Sub drop can occur even with proper aftercare, but given that you didn’t receive aftercare at all this time, I’m not surprised that you’re experiencing it for the first time.  Probably engages the more primal parts of your human side too, which would explain all the raw emotions you’re feeling.”

“Frankly, I am surprised at your knowledge of this phenomenon,” Spock says, and McCoy lets out a snort.

“Let’s just say—confidentially—that I’m speaking from personal experience,” McCoy says, voice low.  “In any case—your best bet would probably be to talk to Sulu about how you’re feeling.  Never too late to do some aftercare, and he can probably assure you that he still feels similarly for you.  I, at least, can promise you that you’re not doing anything—how did you put it?”  McCoy smiles.  “‘Psychologically deviant.’  Sexuality’s broad and diverse.  Humans at least have started to embrace that diversity as a whole—not sure about what things are like in your green-blooded hobgoblin culture.”

“We understand sexuality as a necessary part of existence,” Spock says, “although some of us, such as myself, do not feel sexual attraction, much in the same way as how some humans also do not feel sexual attraction.  We are, in the end, remarkably similar in our spectra of sexual orientations and our galaxies of sexual diversity.  Except, of course, that Vulcans have nineteen genders and humans approximately thirty-nine, depending on how one counts, rendering our webs of sexual orientation superficially different but fundamentally similar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” McCoy says.  “Spare me the 101.  In any case, would you like to talk to Sulu, or should I?”

“I think I can manage, Doctor,” Spock says.  The corners of his mouth twitch upward.  “And should you end up finding yourself curious after all, you’ll find Sulu and me quite flexible in our schedules.”

 _Now_ he’s taken aback.  “Are you flirting with me?” McCoy says.

“Perhaps.”

McCoy rolls his eyes.  “You’re starting to feel better already.  Just get on and go talk to Sulu already before you feel worse again.  And next time, try generating some quick carbs.  Should help prevent the symptoms.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Of course.”

*

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been a long while since he’s gotten laid in any shape or form that pushes McCoy to find Sulu.  Or maybe it’s the fact that he misses that head space, somewhere he hasn’t been in what feels like and might be years.

McCoy guesses (and maybe hopes) as he’s making his way through the halls that Sulu would at least be receptive to him, if Spock essentially invited him to flirt with the guy.  Plus, McCoy knows from when Sulu was manning the chair that Sulu’s got a commanding streak in him about a mile wide, and maybe remembering that look on Sulu’s face as he ordered Khan around is doing things for him.

Maybe.

And Sulu’s not a bad-looking guy, either.  McCoy’s probably pansexual—he’s never sure anymore with all the words people come up with these days—and he has to admit that he’s definitely been attracted to Sulu before.  And probably Spock.  And maybe the Captain.  And Uhura, and—okay, so he’s on board a vessel with a highly attractive crew, and it’s not his fault if he feels some sense of attraction to multiple people.

McCoy finds himself standing before Sulu’s quarters.  Part of him wants to turn back and head back to the medical bay; part of him thinks what he’s about to do is possibly the worst idea.  He’s diagnosed himself with anxiety approximately seven times, and he’s definitely feeling those symptoms now—shaking hands, twisting gut, racing anxious thoughts, the whole lot.  He raises his hand to ring the doorbell on Sulu’s quarters, pauses, then mentally says _oh what the hell_ and presses the button.

The door slides open.  “Hello, Dr. McCoy.  Something up?”

“I, uh—”  McCoy curses mentally.  His heart’s pounding in his chest, and how exactly is he supposed to work up the nerve to bring up what’s really on his mind?  “—wanted to make sure you and First Officer Spock were, uh, fine.”

Sulu raises an eyebrow.  “So you know the circumstances.”

“Yes.  I suppose I do,” McCoy says, trying not to imagine the specifics of what Sulu and Spock were up to.

“We’re fine,” Sulu says, then smiles.  “I’m sure you wouldn’t come all the way here just to ask me that, though.”

Goddammit, it’s like Sulu’s reading his mind.  It’s like he _knows_.  And maybe that’s a good thing—saves him the effort of having to squeeze the words out— _so, how about domming the fuck out of me?_ —himself.

“Would you like to come in?” Sulu says, stepping aside.  The interior of the room is spotless, save for a single small potted plant on the table beside the bed.  McCoy nods and swallows.

“I think I would.”

“Excellent,” Sulu says, closing the door behind him.  “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Oh hell, you know why I’m here,” McCoy says, sweating a little under his collar.  Sulu’s looking at him with a cool stare, the slightest of smiles on his lips, and _God_ does that look suit him well.  McCoy fiddles with the fabric of his pants, then looks back up to meet Sulu’s gaze.

“Maybe,” Sulu says, teasing edge to his voice, and McCoy practically throws his hands up in exasperation.

“So you’re a dom?” is what he manages to squeeze out, and Sulu laughs.

“Yes.”  He grins.  “Interested in playing?”

“Yes,” McCoy says before he can stop himself.  He’s already imagining the tension and the release, the special satisfaction of knowing that he’s doing well, the look on Sulu’s face as he obeys his every word.

“Good.”  Sulu smirks.  “Up for a session now?”

“Why do you think I’m here?” McCoy says, this time actually throwing his hands up, and Sulu laughs.  He turns to the corner of his room and pulls out a duffel bag, unzips it and flourishes a black leather riding crop.

“And your opinions on this?” he says, smirking as if he already knows the answer.

“ _Hell_ yes,” McCoy says, half breathless.  God.  Impact play has got to be his favorite, and he thanks the chaos of the universe controlling their lives that Sulu’s familiar with impact play too.

“Then take off your shirt and get on your knees.”

McCoy does as he’s told, pulling his shirt up over his head; he tosses the shirt on the ground, and Sulu _tsk_ s.

“Fold that shirt properly, Doctor.”

“Okay,” McCoy says, then takes the edges of the shirt and folds it together into a neat square.  He kneels and lays the shirt on the floor beside him.

“Not ‘okay’,” Sulu says, making a face.  “From now on, when you reply, it’s a _yes sir_ or a _no sir_.  Understood?”

“Yes,” McCoy says, then hastily adds, “Sir.”

“Now,” Sulu says, pacing slowly in a circle around McCoy, tapping the riding crop against his palm, “we will have a few ground rules.  First, we’ll be using some safe words.  Unless you have some other preference for the specific words we use, this is what we’ll do: If we’re reaching a limit or boundary, you will use the word ‘yellow’.  If we’ve reached a limit or boundary, or if things are too much, you will use the word ‘red’.  Don’t be afraid to speak up and use the safe words—these are the only times when you will never be punished for speaking.  Do you understand?”

McCoy nods.  Sulu brings the riding crop down on McCoy’s left shoulder with a _thwack_ , and McCoy winces.

“ _Yes sir_ or _no sir_ , Doctor,” Sulu says sternly.  McCoy nods, then catches himself.

“Yes sir,” he says.  Sulu smacks McCoy’s right shoulder this time, and McCoy winces again.

“Strong and loud now,” he says.  “Again.”

“Yes sir,” McCoy barks. 

Sulu smiles, and a sudden wave of satisfaction washes over McCoy.  “Good.”

McCoy feels his stomach turn.  Goddammit.  He’s pretty sure Sulu’s younger than him—some punk-ass kid shouldn’t have this much influence over him, shouldn’t make him shiver with every one of his steps, shouldn’t make him sweat like this and gulp, but, well, here they are, and that’s exactly what’s happening. 

“Eyes straight ahead, Doctor,” Sulu says, and McCoy looks up.  He hadn’t realized that he was looking at the ground. 

“Yes sir,” McCoy says.  Sulu runs the riding crop against McCoy’s back, making him shiver. 

“Remember to use the safe words,” Sulu says, still trailing the riding crop along McCoy’s back, over his shoulders, then around and down his chest, crop lingering on his nipple.  McCoy trembles.  “This is, among other things, a learning experience for us both.  I also have to understand your boundaries and stick with them.  Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good,” Sulu says, lips curling into a smile.  “Now let’s begin.”

*

 

McCoy has the bruise cream to make the marks go away—extra strength arnica gel with green tea extract, plus a handful of other supplements to speed up the process—but as he lifts up his shirt in his quarters and glances at his back in the mirror, red marks randomly splayed out over his skin, he decides he kind of likes the look.  It’s not like anyone else will see, anyway, and they serve as a nice reminder of the session that’s replaying in his mind right now.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he glances back up at himself.

*

Three star days later, McCoy finds himself in Sulu’s quarters again for more of the same.  Then again five star days later.  A week after that, he’s craving Sulu, body itching for him, and Sulu brings out a surprise—a candle.  Open flames are forbidden on the Enterprise, but Sulu’s careful and watches the flame as he drips hot wax onto McCoy’s back.  McCoy writhes and squirms, gritting his teeth against the sharp, stabbing pain, leg twitching when wax lands on it.

They experiment with more.  McCoy’s not sure why he keeps returning to Sulu—for all that he avoids death, McCoy’s strangely attracted to pain, the sharp sensations against his skin a release in themselves, a pleasure all to their own.

But it’s never _just_ about the pain, really.  It’s about the moments of tenderness in between the smacks, the cool breath against burning welts, the feeling of leather running against his back—and the occasional brush of fingertips against his skin, oh, how _that_ makes things worth it.  That and the open-mouthed kisses, breath and tongue mixing, his stubble against Sulu’s smooth jaw, Sulu’s hands intertwined with his, smaller and yet more unsteady. 

It’s about the way his mind clears totally and utterly when he’s in that head space, the way everything suddenly makes _sense_ and it’s just him and his Sir.  He knows, to some degree, what’s going to happen next; he knows exactly where the pain can stop, where _he_ can draw the line.  Sulu is in control, yes, but McCoy’s not entirely helpless either.

So maybe that’s why he practically runs to Sulu after their latest mission.  One minute off and they lose two helmsmen and damn near almost lose Kirk and Uhura, too.  Once McCoy has them stabilized in the sick bay, has their vitals steady and beeping like clockwork, he fastwalks through the halls, bangs on Sulu’s door.

“I need you,” he says when the door opens, and Sulu understands why without McCoy even saying anything.

“Of course,” Sulu says, letting McCoy in and closing the door behind him.  McCoy can practically pinpoint the exact second when Sulu’s eyes switch from sympathetic to cold and authoritative, can see exactly in which moment his demeanor shifts.  “Take off your clothes and get in the position.”

“Yes sir,” McCoy says.  He tugs off his clothes, takes an extra second to fold them sloppily and toss them on the ground in a hasty pile.  He kneels on the ground, knees already tingling in anticipation of the rugburn to come, and clasps his hands behind his neck.

“So eager,” Sulu murmurs, unzipping his bag.  “I think we’ll go with the paddle today.”

McCoy holds still, staring straight ahead, not sure if he’s meant to say anything or not.  He keeps himself quiet—Sulu’s punished him before for speaking out of turn before, and he’s not willing to make that mistake again.  Sulu raises the paddle: composite carbon, light but still hard like wood.  He pats it against McCoy’s ass and smiles.

“Yes, this will be good for today,” Sulu says.  He tips the paddle against McCoy’s skin, lets him feel the edge before pulling it back and bringing it down with a _smack_.  McCoy lets out a little yelp, and Sulu chuckles.

“Noises already, Doctor?” he says, bringing the paddle down on the other side of McCoy’s ass.  McCoy bites his lip and presses his fingers tighter against his hands and neck, tenses all his muscles.  “Sensitive today, it seems.”

“Yes sir,” McCoy mutters.  His chest feels tight and his whole _body_ feels tight, and dammit, he _needs_ this.  Sulu hits him again and McCoy lets out a hiss, tenses and untenses his body, anticipating every smack and yet still whimpering with each one.  His whimpers turn into groans, and he knows that these groans are a sweet symphony to Sulu’s ears—if there’s anything he prides himself on in bed, it’s how he sounds, all needy and yearning, begging without whining.

Sulu continues the smacks, paddle coming down harder and faster, thwacks resounding louder in the small room, and McCoy cries out, louder this time.

“I want,” McCoy says suddenly in between gasps, his head light, “I want you to break me.  Make me cry.”

Sulu pauses, one hand cradling the wide end of the paddle, other hand firmly gripping the handle.

“How so, Doctor?”

“I—don’t know,” McCoy says, chest heaving with the force of his breaths.  “Talk shit about me.  Something.  Just do it.”

“We need to talk about it first,” Sulu says, putting down the paddle.  McCoy grits his teeth.

“Dammit, man,” he says, but there’s no venom in his voice, just gruff acceptance.  His hands, clasped behind his neck, are trembling, and his ass burns, still smarting from the smacks.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sulu says, then lets out a soft laugh.  “In ways you don’t want, I mean.”

“I know.  Sir.”

“We can drop that for a moment,” Sulu says. “Now tell me.  What can I say?  What can’t I say?”

“Just tell me what a goddamn worthless medic I am,” McCoy spits, startling himself with the force of his words. “Tell me how shit I am at my job.  How I can’t do anything right.  How I—” He takes a breath. “How I still manage to not—save everyone.”

Sulu pauses and kneels, looking McCoy deep in the eyes, as if reading him from the inside out.  McCoy stills himself, lets his erratic breathing slow to something calmer, more regular, lets his blinking slow, lets himself relax his muscles.  He knows as well as Sulu does all the somatic signs of fear, and goddammit, he’s not going to let this slip away from him.

“This will require aftercare,” Sulu says finally.  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes sir.”

Sulu stands and steps around behind McCoy, jerks his head back by the hair.

“I want a stronger affirmative, _Doctor_ ,” he says, a sneer in his voice at the title, and McCoy can feel his stomach churning with anticipation already.

“Yes sir!”

“Good,” Sulu says, raising the paddle again.  He lays a light hit against McCoy’s shoulder, leans down to nip at his neck and whisper in his ear.  “Or should I even be calling you _Doctor_?  The title should be reserved for people who can actually manage to do their jobs properly, no?”

McCoy trembles.  

“You’re worthless,” Sulu says, straightening back up.  “The Captain told me about that time you treated him before the Enterprise.  Couldn’t even administer a vaccine without it blowing back up in your face, huh.”

Sulu swings the paddle down onto McCoy’s ass, and a louder shout escapes past McCoy’s gritted teeth.  Sulu smacks him a few more times, a couple seconds in between each, and McCoy gasps, legs starting to buckle.

“I’m terrible at being a medic,” he mutters, then groans as Sulu brushes the flat of the paddle against his tingling skin.  “I’m awful.”

“Yes you are,” Sulu says, voice smug.  “So—horrible—at—what—you—do—”  He punctuates each word with a hit, and McCoy groans, _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ escaping past his lips, his chest heaving, body wracked with pain—

“Yellow,” McCoy says, gasping, and Sulu stops mid-whack.

“Words, pain, or both?” Sulu says, the concern in his voice always there, every time.

“Just pain,” McCoy says, resisting the temptation to bring his hands down to cradle his burning flesh. 

Sulu nods.  He hits McCoy more lightly, and McCoy lets his head hang, lets the gasps get beaten out of him, lets the small whimpers come as the pain starts to build again, lets himself moan as Sulu resumes muttering things in his ear— _can’t do your job right at all can you, you worthless piece of shit medic, should be returned to med school shouldn’t you, but no, you’re not even good enough for that_ —lets all the sounds escape past his lips, mingle with Sulu’s stream of insults, and _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ , everything Sulu says is true and his mind is so clear and if he would just accept it, accept the truth for what it is, and he _does_ accept it and he hears himself whimpering _yes_ , _I know_ , _you’re right_ , and God what is he even doing on the Enterprise, who even gave him the power to be First Doctor in Command, who even _trusted_ him with such a duty—Sulu echoes his thoughts, tells him he should be demoted, _yes_ , tells him he’s only there because he’s Captain Kirk’s friend, _yes_ , _yes_ , and McCoy’s gut is twisting and his heart’s leaping into his throat and his whole body _aches_ with how worthless he knows he is—

“You can’t even protect the people you’re trusted with!” Sulu yells.  “Helmsmen, yeomen, _dead_ because of you!”

And McCoy feels something break inside him, feels something come undone.  It starts with tears hot against his cheeks, his whole body raw and hurting, his heart heavy in his chest, and as Sulu lands one more hit, the tears become brittle sobs wracking his body, making his whole being shake, and through it all he still manages to keep his hands behind his neck, manages to keep his back straight like the good little sub he was trained to be—

“Worthless!” Sulu says, landing one more hit, and McCoy _sobs_ , lets everything out, writhes away from the pain, but this, too, is good, this is good, this isn’t anything to scream yellow or red about; this is a catharsis, his whole body freed. 

A few moments of silence pass between them.  McCoy takes a few shuddering breaths, the aftershocks of pain shooting throughout his body, and he finds that he’s trembling, the tears spilling down his cheeks, the sobbing sounds he’s making totally and utterly undignified, nothing like the moans he was making earlier.

Sulu kneels down and gently runs his fingers along McCoy’s ass, pats him lightly, blows cool breaths against his skin to ease the stinging of his welts.  He runs his hands back up McCoy’s back, rests them on his shoulders, lets him put down his hands.  Sulu gently massages McCoy’s shoulders, works out the knots in his muscles, moves down McCoy’s back and loosens all the tenseness there, and McCoy’s whole body is a confusion of pain and pleasure and five kinds of aching.

“That’s enough for today, I think,” Sulu says, wiping away McCoy’s tears, and McCoy doesn’t realize he’s still crying until Sulu kisses him lightly on his wet cheek.  Sulu cups McCoy’s face in his hands, plants a soft kiss against his lips, and McCoy opens his mouth and lets Sulu in, his tongue tracing his teeth, lips against lips, all warmth and tenderness.

Sulu stands and walks over to the bed—mattress just barely narrower than a twin-size—and squeezes himself all the way to the edge against the wall.  He pats the space before him, and McCoy obeys, climbing into bed with Sulu.  Sulu wraps his arms around McCoy, plants a kiss on the nape of his neck, palms his back and gently caresses his skin.

After a moment, Sulu says, “None of what I said was true.”

McCoy nods.  God, he’s still sniffling, and fuck, he can’t remember the last time he’s cried like this.  He cries more often than people think—always behind closed doors, and always just small tears being shed.  Never—no, _rarely—_ something that consumes his whole body the way today did.

“I know,” McCoy murmurs.

“You’re a wonderful doctor,” Sulu says, propping himself up on an elbow and kissing McCoy’s neck.  He kisses up from his collarbone to his scruffy jaw, plants another kiss behind the shell of his ear.  “The best I’ve ever known.”

“I know,” McCoy says again, softer this time. 

“And their deaths weren’t your fault,” Sulu says softly.  “You did the best you could to save them, and that’s all anyone can ever ask of you.  Every living thing dies, and the most we can do is ease as much of their suffering as we can for as long as we can.  And you’ve done that, over and over again, even helped people cheat death.  You’ve brought people back from the edge.  You even managed to bring the Captain back altogether—you are _brilliant_.”

“I know,” McCoy says, voice breaking, and another tear slips down his cheek.  The truth is that he _does_ know, knows deep in his heart that he’s a good doctor—of course he knows.  He managed to get a near-perfect score on the MCAT, graduated top of his class in med school, and he sure as hell knows it wasn’t blind luck that got him this far, no matter how often it feels like it.  He _knows_ he’s competent, knows that even the best doctors lose patients, knows that—no matter how hard he tries—he can’t save everyone.  Time’s just up for some people and McCoy can’t help that.

“Hey,” Sulu says, planting a kiss between McCoy’s shoulderblades.  “It’s all right.  It really is.”

“Thank you,” McCoy murmurs, turning to face Sulu.  “For that.  For this.  For everything.  It’s—” He pauses.  “It’s good.”

“You’re welcome,” Sulu says, smiling.  “It’s what I do as a dom—let you safely explore whatever fantasies and situations you wish.”

McCoy doesn’t say anything, but inside his thoughts race.  He figures there’s some part of him that enjoys being a sub because he genuinely finds pleasure in the pain.  But really, it’s not just that—it’s not the aspect of being controlled, but the aspect of _controlling_.  Which seems counterintuitive, maybe, relinquishing control to gain control, but that’s just it—the agency of it, the power to say stop when things are too much, the power to end the pain if it’s too overwhelming.  Not like the aches he faces at every other moment: pain lingers in him that even he as a doctor can’t dissipate with salves or injections; baggage hangs heavy on every joint, hurt penetrating through muscle to bone. 

And all that’s housed in his mind—whiskey can’t make all that disappear, no matter how hard he tries.  The only time his mind is truly clear is when he’s in the middle of sub space, focusing on nothing but the sensation and the act of pleasing his Sir. 

McCoy leans in, and Sulu brushes his lips against McCoy’s, deepens the kiss into something hauntingly tender, rubs his hands up McCoy’s arms, stroking the skin and muscle as if to set him at ease. 

“Thank you,” McCoy breathes, and before he knows it, he’s asleep.


End file.
